


Hawke Gets a Cold

by MinervaDashwood



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2013-12-06
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:01:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaDashwood/pseuds/MinervaDashwood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fenris hears that Hawke is home sick with a cold, he stops by to check on her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawke Gets a Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in Act II after the in-game love scene, but before the resolution of Prime Suspect.

For the past two nights, Fenris had sat in almost complete silence, playing cards with the others at the Hanged Man. Of course, silence was his typical modus operandi, so this struck no one as unusual. What was unusual, however, was that the chair next to him had been empty, when typically, Hawke would sit there, glaring daggers at Isabella, and brushing off Varric’s strategic suggestions.

So, without much prelude, when Merrill clumsily plopped the second round of drinks in front of them, Fenris finally asked:  
“Where is Hawke?”

No one glanced his way, except for the abomination, Anders, who sat at the opposite corner. “You don’t know?” he seethed, glaring over his hand of cards.

Fenris refused to meet the mage’s eyes, and instead looked to Isabella for clarification. 

“Poor thing has a cold,” she answered as she finished dealing.

He leaned back in his seat, ignoring the furtive stares from the rest of the table. Hawke hadn’t told them, surely? That last month he’d scarcely had time to dress before he was practically running away from her. How Hawke had never mentioned the night again, though he sometimes wished she would.

Merrill stifled a giggle, and Isabella whispered, “Shush, kitten,” the same time that Aveline rolled her eyes.

He groaned inwardly. Being amidst the others felt wildly uncomfortable without Hawke. She tied them together, after all, and he suspected, was the main reason he and Anders hadn’t killed each other. 

“She is with her mother, then?” he asked.

Varric took a long swig on his pint before answering. “Lady Amell is visiting friends in the country.”

Although Fenris rarely became sick--something to do with the markings, he presumed--he easily imagined how tiring it would be to combat illness alone. Granted, Hawke had her dwarven servants, but somehow Fenris didn’t think of Bodahn as the nursing type.

“Fold,” he said. He slid his cards across the table, left his drink untouched, and made his way back to Hightown.

. . . . . .

"I learned that Hawke is unwell,” Fenris said by way of explanation.

“Er, yes, messere,” Bodahn replied, closing the door.

“I wish to see her.”

For a moment, the dwarf seemed at a loss, and Fenris worried that perhaps he wouldn’t be allowed past the atrium.

“I brought a poultice from the healer,” Fenris lied, though he was bad at it. What else was he to say? That he wished to see Hawke with his own eyes? That he hoped that by coming to her aid he could apologize without actually saying so?

Bodahn gave no indication that he believed Fenris, but he nodded all the same. “I believe the mistress is awake. I took her dinner not long ago.”

“Thank you.”

Fenris climbed the stairs, instantly recalling the last time he’d set foot on them, when Hawke’s hand had gripped his, when she steered them toward her bedroom, when she’d opened the door and he took her in his arms, when he carried her to the bed.

Had it really been so many weeks since then? Truthfully, it felt like it had happened moments ago.

He knocked softly on the door, half dreading the response that would come. He hadn’t planned anything past this point, really, and now his hand shook as he gripped the doorknob. He turned it slowly, waiting to hear her voice, but no sound came.

His anxiety mounted at that point, and he stopped worrying about himself as he wondered if she might be too weak to even answer him. He stifled his selfish timidity and pushed open the door.

The room smelled the same as it had before, of cleanliness and fresh air, of flowers he couldn’t name, and of Hawke. He cringed at the thought. Was he truly a little wolf like Danarius had called him? Some creature cataloging scents? No, he wasn’t, not truly. It was not a multitude of scents that he remembered, only those that made him think of her.

“It is I,” he said, eyes scanning the room until he made out a prostrate figure on the bed. He closed the door, and slowly Hawke rolled over to look at him.

“Fenris?” she murmured. Her voice was nasally and rough, and he smiled at the sound. In one hand she gripped a wad of tissues, while she held her forehead with the other.

“You are ill,” he said, making the most needless of observations. “And I am here.”

He made his way to her bed, noticing that empty food tray sitting nearby.

“I can see that,” she said, sitting up in the bed. “But why?”

“Do you wish me to leave?” He took the wad of tissues from her, and threw them into the wastebasket. When he turned to look at her, her sepia-colored skin seemed paler than usual, and her hazel eyes were cloudy with fatigue.

“I wish to be well,” she answered, narrowly avoiding his question as she slouched against the pillows.

Were he a more well-spoken man, he’d comfort her with words and reassurances, but since he was not, he set about tidying up the room: picking up tissues and throwing them away, adding a few logs to the fire and shifting the embers to make it grow, pouring fresh water into the kettle, readying a cup of tea leaves to steep when the water came to a boil.  
He made his way around the room like this, circumventing the bed, listening to Hawke’s quiet sniffles and her occasional sneeze.

“Maker take you, Fenris, what are you doing?”

She stared at him through tendrils of hair that hung in front of her face, so that he could not clearly see her expression.

“I have servants, you know.”

“I do.” By then the kettle was whistling, and he made the cup of tea, all the while feeling her gaze upon him. He knew she deserved more than silent gestures, but at the moment, he could not think of the right thing to say.

He walked to the bed, cradling the warm cup in his hands, and finally, he stood next to her and proffered her the cup.

She took it without comment, and sipped slowly. “Strong,” she murmured.

“Too strong?” He had made it strong out of habit, never thinking to ask her what she wanted.

“No,” she shook her head. “I don’t mind…thank you.”

She coughed, holding the cup away from her and covering her mouth with the back of her other hand. Without thinking, he placed his hand gently against her back to steady her.

“You think you can come and go as you please?” she whispered.

“I-I-“ he looked away, unable to meet the questions in her eyes, and removed his hand. “Tell me to leave, and I shall.”

She shook her head, and he took comfort in that, and though she had a right to an answer, he could not provide one.

“I finished the book you gave me,” he said, apropos of nothing.

“And?” 

“I came to thank you for the gift…for the book and for teaching me to read it.”

“And that is why you’re cleaning my room and brewing me tea?”

“No.” 

“Ah, so you’re missing your life as a slave and thought you could get your fix in my bedchamber.” She smiled at him, her eyes playful and teasing. 

A comment like that from anyone else and he’d have snarled at them, but from her it meant something much different: You’re making excuses, Fenris, and I can see right through them.

“I missed you at the card game,” he managed to say.

“Why? You thought Isabella would take your coin instead of mine? She cheats, you know.”

He smiled, “I do. Isn’t that the point?”

Their eyes met for an instant, and she chuckled before giving way to another bout of coughing. Again, he tried to console her with a light touch, and this time, she leaned into his hand.

“I missed you too,” she said, in that rough, nasally voice.

He softened at the sound, and he touched a hand to her forearm, mesmerized by the contrast of his blue-white markings against her dark skin. The sight provoked shadowy recollections of their night together: her tender touch, the freedom and serenity he felt in her arms…until the pain and memories had set in.

Hawke slid her hand over his, and he thought she would pry his fingers away, but she shifted on the bed and urged him to crawl in next to her.

“Hawke,” he warned, her name at once a reproach and a plea. Although he ached with longing, he could not bring himself to give into a temptation that would doom him all over again. 

“Just…hold me.”

He nodded and found his way under the covers, pulling her into his arms.

“Warm,” she murmured, and he nuzzled her hair and neck, taking in potent wafts of that scent that could only be described as hers.

Saying sorry seemed so inadequate then, with her soft, chilled body resting against his, her quiet sighs of contentment filling his ears.

Being mindful of the stack of unused tissues next to them, Fenris adjusted the covers around Hawke. She shivered against him because of the slight fever she undoubtedly had, and he squeezed his arms around her.

“I’m--“ he started, keeping his voice low, but Hawke stopped him mid-sentence.

“There’s no rush, Fenris,” she whispered. 

“You are a…patient woman,” he admitted, though that word could not begin to explain how or why she tolerated him.

“When it comes to something worth waiting for, I am.” She rested her fingers on his chest and turned in his arms until her head nestled against his shoulder. Within a few moments, she fell asleep in his arms.


End file.
